Quality Time
by tracer2032
Summary: With Sam off at school, John and Dean have more than enough time to catch up, bond, hunt, annoy, surprise, and learn from each other.
1. Rounding the Bases

**Quality Time**

**Disclaimer:** So, just an FYI, camping out in Kripke's backyard...not a way to get on his good side. Adding the boys to my Christmas list as you read.

**A/N:**I plan on makingthis is a series of oneshots that take place between the years where Sam is off at school and it's John and Dean hunting together. Don't worry though, Sam'll be in them too. You'll see. But I would appreciate your thoughts about continuing with this idea.

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1. Rounding the Bases 

The thick, humid air reeked of alcohol and sweat. Loud, slurred voices ravaged the midnight hour accompanied by the clanging of dark bottles and the deafening crack from the pool tables. Southern rock blared from the old jukebox's speakers and a sea of drunken bodies swayed dangerously to the pulsating rhythm.

The elder hunter rubbed a worn and tired hand over his stubble-laden jaw and shifted his attention away from the crowd and back to the mess of papers and news clippings that held the information to fix the community of Jesuha County. His eyes blurred, whether from the bourbon he'd downed throughout the evening or the stress coupled with the lack of sleep because the last months hadn't been easy, not by a long shot.

His youngest had left. He didn't just walk out the door either, he slammed it, stormed out in a rage determined to forge his own existence. John understood, to a certain extent, although he'd be damned to admit it. Sam was like him, that much was sure. Stubborn to the core and one who liked to give orders, not take them. But he was still dad, leader of the mess that was his family and his authority wasn't going to be usurped not if he could help it.

While it hurt, John knew he would recover from the longing desire to see both his boys fighting over who got the bed in the cramped hotel room and who got the floor. He would move on from hearing the door slam and expecting to see his youngest dragging his feet behind his oldest. Eventually, hearing a high pitched laugh wouldn't jar him, and neither would seeing a random young man whose dark tousles of hair needed a pair of scissors taken to it.

John lifted his head from his mound of paperwork and turned his attention to the bar where his eldest was leaning on his elbows, face entirely too close to the blonde haired, big-chested bartender's for the father's liking. Not to mention the fact his son was whispering in her ear.

It was times like these that John wondered why he worried about his eldest so much. When he was in his favored element, Dean seemed to be coping just fine with his little brother's furious exile. The father sighed deeply at the knowledge of what his son did when he wasn't.

When he'd first heard thebanging sound from the side room of their borrowed living establishment, John had thought something had found its way in, something had breeched the salt barriers that protected them, and something was going to try and take the last remnant of his family. But this attack had come from within their ranks.

He was speechless and horrified by the image that had met him when he'd cracked the door, rifle aimed and cocked. The red that trickled down the wooden walls and quiver that shook through each panel as his eldest's fist connected with it again and again pounded in his head. John had treaded slowly into the room, keeping his distance as he circled to take in his broken son's pain. He was more than astonished to see Dean's face bearing watery lines that freely stemmed from his eyes and dripped liberally from his chin.

John shook his head at the memory, willing it away. Dean hadn't even recognized his presence that evening and if he had, the boy hadn't mentioned it. Not that he'd talked about it either. Certainly not when he bandaged the bloody and bruised fingers or when his son stumbled back into the apartment stone drunk and muttering apologies to a brother that no longer held residence in their "home". It wasn't how they dealt. Not the Winchesters.

Work. Hunting. That was how they coped, their favored drug that rid their world of pain and misery. It kept them alive, kept them focused, and gave them a reason to wake and not end it all. Revenge fueled them onwards. The idea of living with the knowledge that their quest had ended and justice had been served warranted the miles of endless highway they wandered.

The oldest Winchester rubbed the back of his sore neck and then proceeded to gesture his son to get his ass back to the table and his head in the game. He was more than slightly annoyed when he got nothing more than a side-glance and a smug grin before once again viewing his son's back.

John ran his fingers through his hair and contemplated a course of action. Try as he might, he just couldn't get Dean to focus when the boy was around anything female. A small smile crept onto the father's face as he thought of what his Mary would say to that. Back in the day, he'd been quite the charmer, well damn near stalker when it had come to her. But this was different. This wasn't downtime, they were on a job. A paying job, no less, so that left no time for his son's antics.

The father cleared his throat, a sound drowned out by the massive crowd, but one a sharp-tuned ear would pick up. But if the younger hunter heard, which John was sure he had, he ignored it. Dad was done messing around.

Methodically slow, John scrounged through his notes and placed them in their respective order before maneuvering his way over to long bar and his son deep in the realm of flirting. With a swift side step, John brushed up along the wooden edge and positioned himself between Dean and his entertainment.

"Son, it's after midnight." The father stated firmly, eyeing his son for a long moment before turning and staring down the scantily clad bartender.

"So?" The girl chirped, batting her eyelashes as she flitted her baby blues from the older man back to the younger.

"We have a job to do in the morning." John added sternly, his face bearing the signature "no nonsense" look every parent on the planet has down to a science.

"Can you hold on just for one sec, uh…"

"Tara" The girl drawled sweetly.

"Tara." Dean grinned, his eyes bright with anticipation. He so had this chic, "I'll be right back, I swear."

John raised an eyebrow at his eldest's insistence that he would be returning to the recent object of his rabid state of lust, but allowed himself to be strong-armed by his son a little ways back from their current location. The father bit his lip to keep from laughing as he watched Dean's face morph from playful to incredibly serious.

"Dad." Dean started, his voice low, and then as if unable to find the correct words to voice his current state repeated the name, dropping his chin to his chest as he muttered it and placing his hands on his father's shoulders. "Dad."

"Son." John quipped, clearly amused.

"Dad, this is serious, ok?" Dean replied coolly, "Look, I know you're out of practice when it comes to women, but Dad, did you see her? I mean did you _see_ her?"

"I saw her, Dean." John complied laughingly, but quickly stopped when he saw the fire in his son's eyes.

"Okay, so you know why I can't leave then, right?" Dean questioned pointedly, patting his dad's shoulder and turning on his heels to head back to his future score.

"Yes and no." John answered, whipping around to block his son's path once again. "What's more important than preparing for the job?"

"Daaad" Dean whined, "Don't do this."

"Do what?" the father asked playfully.

"You're embarrassing me." Dean muttered.

"C'mon, son, you have to look alive. You know this job is important and that's why we have to put a lot of time and energy into making sure we have all the bases covered." Dean looked back towards the bar and then back to his father. He knew this lecture all too well, and usually he took it. But he wasn't in the mood for sleep. He was in the mood for something else, and his father had just flung the door wide open.

"Yeah, Dad. I understand." Dean replied, fighting to keep the smirk off his face when his father nodded in return to his son's submission and turned for the exit. "But you've done nothing but research all night so you've must've covered most of the bases, leaving me to cover what? Third and Home?"

"Come again?" John asked, his brow furrowed in both confusion and fatherly intuition. He got the feeling he wasn't going to like where Dean was headed.

"Nothing. I just got the rest of the bases covered 's all." Dean retorted smugly, his body radiating cockiness.

"Oh, so you know how and where this whole operation is going down then and exactly what we're up against, huh?" John drilled, his tone all business.

"Uh…not we, dad. Just me. And yeah, wait, hold on." John waited impatiently as Dean dug quickly through his jacket pockets, laughing manically when he held a crumpled cocktail napkin victoriously in his hand, "1548 Windsor. Apartment 12"

"That's across town, son, and not anywhere near the site of the Careaux mansion." John reprimanded, struggling to grasp why his son didn't remember that detail. "And since when have you ever gotten a solo job? You're not ready for that."

"How would you know? And I've been working this gig since I was fifteen so, yeah, I think I can fly solo." Dean watched his father carefully as a look of complete understanding dawned the older Winchester's face.

"We're not talking about the same thing here, are we?" John asked slowly, his voice deep. He really didn't want to have this particular discussion. In fact, he'd thought he'd made it perfectly clear how he felt on that issue years back. Apparently, Dean wasn't paying attention during his entire "what lies beneath" speech. However short and indirect it was, but he'd thought he'd made his fatherly point in that crappy bars were no place to pick up women, especially ones that looked like they received a fee for their services.

"Nope." Dean laughed, clearly enjoying every second of his father's apprehension and panic over where the conversation was leading them. This was a John Winchester he never got to see.

"Fifteen, eh?" John sighed, and rubbed his hand through his short hair pensively. "Where the hell was I?"

"Uh…Madison. Poltergeist thing, I think." Dean shrugged, shifting a little when his father's eyebrows rose questionably as he mulled the information over.

"Fantastic." John muttered. "Friggen' fantastic."

"Oh, don't worry, Dad. It's not like I have kids or something." Dean couldn't help but flinch when his father's head snapped up quickly, fierce brown eyes boring into him, and yet he couldn't resist, "Well, not that I know of anyways. But I'm pretty sure I suited up almost every time, 'cept that one time in Jack--"

"Dean!" John interjected loudly, ignoring the side glances he was got for the remark. Silently, he wiped a hand slowly over his face and tried to regain his composure.

"What? Dad, c'mon, you can't honestly say you didn't know what was going on. House full of guys. And with a face like this, I'm telling you, dad, they practically jumped me!" John shot Dean a warning look, and this time Dean heeded it.

"Well, no jumping tonight. Or the next night for that matter." John mumbled, fiddling with his journal.

"You can't be serious!" Dean argued, gasping at what his father was suggesting. "I'm twenty-two!"

"Yeah, well, when I was your age I had a wife and a child on the way." John shot back quickly, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Now, say goodnight."

"Dad…"

"Now"

"This is friggen' stupid" Dean huffed, turning around and barely whispering a "goodbye" to the bartender before storming out, cheeks flushed, behind his father. He knew he looked like a kid who'd just got his favorite toy taken away as punishment, but didn't care, 'cause at the moment it fit.

John smiled widely as he reveled in his small victory. He'd never been the best dad, or the most around during his son's teen years. But it was nice and damn frightening to have some time with Dean. The kid had a zeal for life that was for sure. He may not have Sam for a while, or ever again, but he still had the allegiance of one son. And that would do for now.

Sinking into the driver's seat, John knew everything would work out. Somehow, this "alone" time with Dean wouldn't hurt their relationship, but make it stronger. They would cope, through hunts and wounds, and he could handle that. He was damn John Winchester. He could handle anything; the military had taught him that. Everything except what came out of his son's mouth next.

"So, Dad, if I do well on this hunt, I mean, like rock salt this ghost's ass myself, you think maybe instead of splitting some of the money, Tara could reward me?"

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Alright so lemme know if you think Ishould continue on with this idea. And dont worry I am still working on Cryptic I swear! So, tell me what you thought and thanx for reading.


	2. Driver's Pick

2. Driver's pick

The mass of yellow, red, and orange flew by the dew-laden window as the black classic roared down the Pennsylvania out road. Every stretch of nature along the highway exhibited Fall against the dark, dreary morning sky. The array of golden haystacks and plaid-baring scarecrows announced it as October and the more Dean took it all in, the more his mind screamed he had only two more weeks to brace himself for November's harsh coming.

He shook his head at the fiery memories and averted his attention back to his father, the older man's dark, tired eyes fixed on the road and tense hands gripping and twisting almost nervously as they held the wheel. It didn't help because a complete fool could take in his dad's appearance and know the man being scrutinized was a ticking bomb.

One look and the sinking, churning feeling that had ravaged his stomach from childhood returned with a vengeance. The images of his father hugging the porcelain bowl and spewing his emotion, pain, and weakness into it violently were still too clear in his mind for Dean's liking.

He had to work to not grimace at the memories. Jim, Jack, Jose, Johnny had quite an appearance when he was younger, and had stayed, their presence reeking throughout the cramped living quarters for the better part of four years.

Dean had to laugh, well, at the very least smirk at the fact that the mere second he manages to adjust to anything that darkens his doorstep, his entire life shifts gears again. At a young nine, Dean had figured the stale, thick air and hot breath were to be a staple of his existence and was learning how to hide the empty bottles, scrub the floor, and partially clean his father. But it changed.

Dad's friends made one hell of exit, refusing vehemently to be exiled. To say it was a painstakingly slow process would be the major understatement of the century and Dean had wished many a time since those dark days that his mind wasn't the steel trap it had always been.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in the passenger, a position he didn't like to begin with, and rested his head against the cool pane. Dad only got drunk four times a year now. Four days out a three hundred and sixty five—mom's birthday, their anniversary, mom's death, and Christmas, because apparently the idea of family coming home for the holidays and every other touchy-feely chic flick moment sickened his father as much as him or maybe it was just because Mom had always gone the extra mile come that holiday.

Those days were rough. Horribly rough. Dean hated to admit it, but he'd gotten used to being able to actually "see" his father's eyes rather than the alcohol induced glaze. He sincerely relished hearing his dad's deep voice instead of the dragging incoherent slur.

Dean deeply admired and dare he say loved his father, but these days were dangerous, anything could fly from his father's mouth, and Dean always had to mentally and emotionally prepare himself for these days starting weeks in advance constantly reminding himself that the man that would appear during the horrid 24 hours was not his real father.

Trying his best to look nonchalant in the presence of his father, Dean tossed a glance over his shoulder to get a good long look at the backseat. The empty back seat. It hadn't been more than three months ago that the midnight bench had held his little brother's lanky form.

November's were easier with Sam. If nothing else his little brother had given him something to focus on other than the issues of a dead mother and drunk, ranting father. Dean had a routine, a ritual, that started the last week of October and ran until the end of the dreaded month.

Operation Complete Interest and Involvement in Every Single Aspect of Sam's Life usually went off without a hitch. Dean simply increased the amount of time he spent with Sam and asked far too many personal questions that neither he nor Sam really wanted to discuss. But it was a much needed aversion and as much as Dean tried to hide the real reason for his heightened awareness he knew Sam relented to his 'hovering' only because little brother wasn't as clueless as Dean wanted him to be.

Sam had that small bit of his mother that neither he nor his father possessed. That desire for normalcy, the will to linger and stay, draw from the moment not rush past it. And that's exactly how big brother justified the younger's abandonment. Sam was like Mom, and Mom would want this for Sammy. Even though it hurt, allowing Sam to have a life outside of hunting seemed almost right.

Dean snapped his attention back to the outstretched road ahead, he was thinking too much. He didn't want to dwell and drudge through memories--he'd done enough of that in the last couple of months to warrant five years worth of chic flick production and the complete silence that hung in the car didn't help one bit.

He wanted an escape, wanted to forget momentarily. His release was music, always had been. Nothing cut to the core more than an excellent riff accompanied by powerful eloquent lyrics that resonated with everything he kept bottled up inside him.

"Can we turn on the radio or something?" Dean murmered, twisting in the seat to face his father's profile.

"Huh?" John startled, jerking out of his driving stupor, "Yeah, uh…I saw a billboard for 102.2, see if you can get that one."

"No way." Dean refuted, shaking his head. "I saw that sign too and there is no way in hell I'm listening to that crap."

"It's country, Dean. Not crap." John argued, crackling static filling the air as he scanned the FM stations, the buzz replaced by the twanging melody moments later as he located the desired station.

"Yeah, because everyone loves listening to some man whining about how all his ex-s live in Texas." Dean shot back, reaching under the seat and pulling out his worn shoebox filled with precious plastic.

"Hey, George Strait was simply providing insight into something that is a serious problem for many people. The poor man can't even return home cause of all those women." John defended, reaching to turn the volume up a little higher.

"Well, he shouldn't have married them then" Dean retorted, smirking as he shifted through his collection, "The way I see it, we should all just "live in sin" as Pastor Jim puts it. I mean, that way at least there's no alimony involved."

"Where did I go wrong?" John murmured, feigning exasperation although not having to work too hard at it.

"I think it's when you started listening to this stuff." Dean offered, selecting Metallica's Black Album and removing it from its protective case.

"You think it'll be hard to hunt with only one hand?" John posed, eyeing his son's outstretched hand as it approached the tape deck.

"Probably, but I hear chics dig injured men. It's that whole Florence Nightingale thing. And no offense Dad, but I'd take a hot nurse over you any day."

With lightening speed, Dean made a brave attempt to flip off the radio and insert the tape, but while youth provided a slight advantage, experience and years of training thwarted the attempt. The clatter of plastic was heard as the revered item banged its way to the floor, accompanied by a pained yelp from Dean due to the death grip currently smashing his hand.

"Now, are we going to leave the radio alone?" John questioned, speaking as if instructing a small child.

"Maybe." Dean smirked, the response however was short lived due to the screaming the bones in his hand were doing, "Alright! God, let go!"

"I told you not to do it." John reprimanded lightly, a smile plastered on his face, "Who knows this stuff may grow on you."

"I doubt it." Dean sulked, "How many more hours we got?"

"About 4. Probably make it in three and a half though. Oh, this is a good one." Dean sunk down into the seat, bringing his knees in towards his chest and covering his ears to silence his father's purposefully off-key rendition of "Friends in Low Places".

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_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud_

"Dean, stop that!" John ordered, frowning as he watched his twenty-two year old's reaction to not getting his way.

"Can't. _thud _Take. _thud. _Any. _thud _More!" Dean slurred, continuing his repetitious movement of lightly hitting his head against the passenger window, but hard enough to make a sound because apparently his father had a knack for completely ignoring his constant protests and suggestions on changing the radio station. But what father could resist protesting damage to his son's brain? Screwy logic, but it worked, well, sort of, at least his dad was paying attention.

"Son, I'm the one driving this damn car hundreds of miles, and furthermore, it's my car." John lectured, turning his head to catch his son's eye, although turning the volume down.

"I could drive." Dean offered smugly.

"Hell no." John exclaimed, "I value this car way too much."

"I'm not that bad." Dean protested, his tone radiating offense.

"Well, you're not that good either." John countered, "It's just the rules of the road son. My car, my music."

"So what? I'm supposed to suffer?"

"No, you're supposed to…how does Sammy put it? Shut your cakehole?" John let out a small victory laugh and Dean frowned. It wasn't that the joke wasn't funny it just would've been better if the phrase was coming out of Sam's mouth, not his dad's. Dean had a good comeback but didn't get to use it, as soon as he opened his mouth, Dad shifted from light banter to full on combat mode.

"Son, get the journal and tell me the location again. We'll be there in just a bit. And check the silver bullets because from most of the research I've done, this werewolf is one son of a bitch. And we don't want any screw ups tonight"

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Waiting. There was nothing in the entire world Dean hated more. Well, at the moment anyways. Especially when such a state required crouching in the midst of prickly bushes that housed hundreds of insects and whatever other god-forsaken overgrown foliage that provided a hedge around the small opening known to be the wolf's primary feeding ground.

The pale moon waxed and waned against the midnight darkened sky. From the shimmering light Dean could vaguely make out the dark brown patches that marred the circle of lush green. Blood. Whether human or animal was unknown, but considering the town's number of missing person's during this particular lunar cycle, it wasn't hard to guess.

Slowly, Dean shifted his weight and lowered himself to his knees, giving his cramping legs a much needed break. Almost unconsciously, he began softly humming as he checked over his gun and counted the number of silver bullets his dad had distributed.

"Do you want to get yourself killed?" A harsh voiced whispered, snapping Dean completely out of his trance.

"Uh…no?" Dean shrugged, meeting his father's hard stare before routinely checking his gun again, picking up the tune where he had left off.

"Son." John reprimanded, "Stop."

"It's a werewolf, Dad. I doubt my humming is gonna bring it to us, but I'm pretty sure your yelling will." Dean shot back, smirk in place.

"I'm not yelling." John refuted forcefully.

"Whatever."

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The light glow from his watch held the passing of another hour, and John rubbed his free hand furiously over his face, biting down on his tongue to prevent him from lashing out. Dean had hummed the same bars over and over again, never once switching tunes and was still at it. It was a song John didn't know, but if he ever found the man that penned it, he was going to personally beat the crap out of him.

"Dean. I'm not gonna tell you again son." John muttered, hawk eyes scanning the hunting ground for any sign of movement.

"So I have to put up with your idea of music for almost 5 hours and you can't take one of Metallica?" Dean uttered disbelievingly.

"Metallica? That's that screaming drowned out by guitar you listen to, right?"

"It's good stuff, Dad."

"Maybe if you could understand it." John shot back quickly.

"I can understand it." Dean argued, "Plus it helps me focus and keeps me calm."

"What?"

"I'm serious. This song is like the banner anthem of all things werewolf, I swear. Totally gets me ready to kick some werewolf ass." Dean stated proudly, watching his dad's face morph from comic to confused and back again.

"And what song would this be?" John chuckled, the idea of a werewolf theme song would only make sense in Dean's brain.

"Of Wolf and Man." Dean replied knowingly.

"That's what you're humming?" John asked, to which Dean simply nodded.

It would be another half hour before the flicker of yellow eyes and stench of wet fur wafted through the air. Ten more for the beast to make its move and lunge for Dean only to receive a clip of silver in its body for even thinking it a possibility to attack the son of John Winchester.

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Dean flung the last shovel load of dirt over the make shift grave for the man inside the wolf. Hurriedly, he gathered the rest of the gear and hustled over to where his father was collecting the rifles and placing them in the trunk.

"Everything set?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright then let's go." John grabbed the shovel and flung it over the top of the gear before slamming the trunk closed and sliding into the driver's seat. "So this Metallica stuff, really calms you down, huh?"

"Yes sir." Dean nodded, "Don't know why, but it works. Somehow it helps."

"Well, it can't be all that bad then can it?" John considered, not failing to note the way his son's eyes lit up at the question. The more he thought about it the more John realized that Dean had hummed during most of the more intense hunts and almost every day since Sam had left. John could've slapped himself for not grasping his eldest's form of therapy. "So what was this one then?"

"Of Wolf and Man." Dean answered excitedly.

"Hmm…Might have to check it out seeing as every werewolf uses it as their theme song." John joked, more than happy to see a huge grin sweep over his oldest's face at the proposition. This was one area where he could take part in what Dean enjoyed, something that his cause and mission rarely allowed for.

That was all it took. Within two minutes, Dean had dug the tape out from beneath the leather seat and the pounding bass line and monster guitar riffs poured out from the '67's speakers with Dean singing along and John desperately trying to understand the words.

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Okay so there ya have it...nothing but craziness...i promise the next one will be more on the drama side of things. Lemme know what you think and also if there is something you'd like to see addressed seeing as you guys are the ones reading and I write for you...thanx for reading and reviewing!


	3. In Case You Didn't Know

3. In Case You Didn't Know

John trudged slowly into Hank's Travel Inn's idea of a motel room. His usual stoic face scrunched in dislike as the stale, tobacco scented air hit him dead on. Placing a hand on his aching side, he bent to pick up the duffle Dean had thrown in the room's general direction. He was starting to get the feeling he was going to have to find a way to make some targets if his boy's aim didn't get any better.

A pained wince clouded the father's features when he shouldered the pack, and a small groan escaped his lips as the weight rested heavily on his sore back. The night's hunt hadn't gone anywhere in the remote vicinity of good. In fact, it had been one of the roughest they had encountered in a long time.

John wasn't a fight or flight kind of guy but tonight's events had almost turned him into one. Considering the four times that son-of-a-bitch threw him against the wall, and the fact Dean couldn't get off a decent shot to save his life or his father's, John hated to admit it but they had been completely unprepared.

It wasn't a simple rock salt kind of job. All John could figure was they hadn't researched the events surrounding the Kreager deaths well enough, but no surprise there. That used to be Sam's job and neither he nor Dean were adequate replacements. Pretty sure they never would be.

All he wanted was a good long hot shower to ease his aching joints and a deep night's sleep. With a swift drop of his shoulder, the duffle thudded down onto the bed, and John began shifting through it for some relatively clean clothes. Laundry. Another task Sam had been assigned too, but only 'cause no one else wanted it and well he was the youngest. Not exactly fair, but fair enough.

Grabbing a shirt and sweatpants, John tossed them out onto the matted dark brown excuse for a comforter and continued his search for his toothbrush. The damn item refused to surface, however, and it became an elaborate mission to find it. John nearly jumped a foot in the air when Dean slammed the room door.

"Wh-what's the m-matter, D-dad?" Dean heaved, although still maintaining his usual cockiness "C-caught you off—off guard?"

"I'm never off guard." John protested, turning to give his son a stern look only to find his oldest gripping the small side table firmly, his face pale. "Dean, you okay, son?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed, "I'm good."

With calculating eyes, John watched as his son pushed himself off from the table to prove his point, and saunter over to the other bed, kicking off his shoes and flopping down onto the bed. John issued a disapproving look at his son's behavior.

It wasn't that he was one of those psychos who preached 'cleanliness next to godliness' but he wasn't a person inclined to smell the aesthetically displeasing combination of sweat, mud, and blood for the rest of the evening—a mixture that was seeping into the brown bed covering every second not to mention probably deteriorating the interior of his baby. No matter what the room reeked of, his senses would adjust and he probably wouldn't even notice it in the morning, but John had this nagging feeling that Dean's newly found 'I hunt therefore I am' scent would probably only get worse come sun up.

"I'll be out in 10. I expect you to be waiting, clean clothes in hand." John ordered to his son's sprawled out form. The father rolled his eyes, and smacked his eldest's feet, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yessir" Dean slurred, burying his sweaty, dirt-tainted head further into the stained pillow.

"I mean it." John emphasized firmly, receiving only an incoherent grunt in reply. Shaking his head, John grabbed his stuff off the bed and limped into the bathroom.

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For a crappy motel, they had good water pressure. The hot stream felt wonderful against John's tired skin and did wonders for the tight muscles and aching joints that he knew must be a sign of a hard hunt and in no way related to his age. Although Dean seemed always quick to point out he was old and pretty soon would have a cane. But if memory served, he'd been the one to off the ghost tonight so that made Papa the top dog. He'd like to see Dean joke about that.

Stepping out of the shower, John ran his fingers through his hair, ridding it of the excess waters, and pulled on his shirt and pants. He took a good look in the cracked mirror and noticed a nice size bruise coming in on the left side of his face slightly above the jaw line and sighed. Dean would be doing most of the talking for a bit. Scary thought, but guys that looked like they'd just been mugged didn't help the whole 'I'm with the F.B.I.' routine.

He twisted the copper handle covered lime green from rust, and grabbed his toothbrush from the sink's edge. John let out a deep breath, hanging his head in sheer irritation. He'd forgotten the toothpaste. With a short scoffing laugh, he shut the water off and decided this was one thing that would have to wait for morning. Any more time spent hogging the bathroom meant more time for Dean's smell to cling to every piece of material in the room.

"Your turn." John's voice boomed loudly as he flung open the bathroom door.

"Ok" Dean mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

He sat there for a while, tired eyes blinking heavily as he reached behind him for his duffle and slowly pulled it towards him. Struggling with the zipper, Dean finally grit his teeth and jerked it open, grabbing whatever items that resembled a shirt and pants closest to the top. John raised an eyebrow skeptically as he watched his son's actions. Maybe Dean had been hurt this time around, although he thought the ghost had only attacked him.

"Watcha looking at?" Dean mocked lightly, jumping up into a standing position only to sway moments later when he tried to move forward.

"Dean!" John covered the distance between them in all of two long strides, grabbing hold of his son's arms to steady him, his face etched with worry, "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"Just dizzy." Dean mumbled, eyes closed as he relied on his father's hold to keep him upright.

"Did something happen tonight? You sure you're not injured?" John pressed, his panicked eyes darting furiously over Dean's lax form for any sign of gash or abrasion better yet, head wound.

"I'm ok." Dean replied, opening his glazed eyes and regaining his balance enough to pull away from his dad.

"I don't think so, son. You should lie do-"

"Dad! I'm fine. Lay off." Dean snapped, colliding with John's sore shoulder as he brushed past him and headed towards the bathroom.

"Dean," John gripped his son's arm to stop his advance, and locked his eyes laced with fatherly concern with his stubborn son's, "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? We can't afford to hide things like that, not in this line of work, ok?"

"I know." Dean replied shortly, "Can I have my arm back now?"

------------------

John's leg bounced nervously as he sat in the hard wooden side chair waiting for Dean's exit from the bathroom. It had been 15 minutes and 32 seconds since his son had ventured in there. 33. And only 5 minutes prior he'd nearly fallen flat on his face.

The thing that got him was that he really didn't see any visible injury which could only mean his son was hiding something from him. But he really didn't think that a possibility because for one, Dad always found out everything, just a fact of life, and two, he wasn't around all the time, but he felt he was active enough in his son's lives to know if something major had happened. Minus, Sam's Stanford thing. That had come out of left field. Okay, so maybe, he'd seen the application around. Alright, that didn't count.

This wasn't Sam. This was Dean. His oldest, who to his surprise got along with him quite well. Sure, they'd had their share of small disagreements over the past few months but most of them centered around food choice and music. Dean knew how to take orders, something Sam never could do, and that, John was convinced would save his life someday. No back talk, simply obedience. A good soldier.

The creaking door snapped John's attention back to reality, and he returned Dean's lopsided grin with a smirk. Right before he saw his son collapse.

-----------

John bolted out of the chair, knees slamming into the hard floor as he dropped down at his son's side. Frantically, he placed two fingers on the side of his son's throat willing them to find a pulse. John creased his forehead in worry and confusion. They did find one, but it seemed weak, steady, but almost unsure.

"Dean? You with me, son?" John nudged his eldest's shoulder hoping the movement would elicit a response. It didn't. "Christ, Dean."

Letting out a quivering breath, John positioned himself for better leverage and placed one arm under Dean's knees, and the other hand firmly at the base of his neck. With a pained groan due to his body's angry protests, John lifted his son's body, taking extreme care not to jostle Dean in the slightest.

With a tenderness John rarely showed, he slowly lowered Dean onto the bed. For a minute, the father did nothing but stare, prayers to a god he wasn't sure existed pouring from his mind.

"You wanna wake up for your old man?" John joked tightly, a small smile gracing his lips as his thumb stroked Dean's forehead. His son looked all of about twelve just laying there like that.

John let out a ragged sigh, pulling his hand away so he could indulge in his nervous habit of chewing on his thumbnail. A soft moan pierced the tense silence followed by a choking relieved laugh when John saw the hint of green peering out from beneath half-closed lids.

"Hey, buddy, you got me good that time." John rambled, settling down next to Dean on the bed.

"What happened?" Dean rasped, blinking away the realm of unconsciousness.

"You fainted, I think." John stated quickly, not wanting to relive that experience ever again. He'd been lucky considering his chosen lifestyle, aside from hunting 'accidents' and a few battles with fierce colds, his boys had remained healthy. Disease didn't ravage his family and random fainting spells never happened. Well, at least, until now.

"Oh." Dean mumbled, as if the entire ordeal was to be expected.

"Oh? That's all you got to say?" John pressed, his tone signaling an impending interrogation.

"My head hurts." Dean offered with a shrug, pressing his fingers to his temples and scrunching his face against the throbbing.

"I'll get you some Tylenol, ok?" John patted Dean's leg when his son nodded slowly, and then set off to find their stash of assorted pills.

Try as he might, he couldn't remember whether the Ziploc bag was in the car or in one of their packs, which was wonderful because if he didn't feel old before, he sure as hell did now. He did know it wasn't in his bag, cause he'd seen Dean with it last. Or was pretty sure he had. It didn't matter. It was a place to start.

John unzipped and zipped every compartment in his son's bag before finding their stash. Without even checking to see if the bag was open or not, John yanked it out of the duffle's side pocket. It, of course, was open.

The rattling of pill boxes followed by a stream of curses cut through the air. Dean fought to see what was going on, but John snapped for him to lie back down and started grabbing the escaped boxes from the bottom of the pocket and setting them on the floor. His hand contacted something resembling a cylinder and John bit down hard on his lip to silence a reaction when he pulled the object from its hiding place.

A transparent tan container met his eye bearing a white script wrapped around it. His son's name typed onto it, along with some doctor whose office resided in New Mexico. The prescription had been filled recently as far as he could tell.

John mind raced with possible scenarios. They hadn't been in that state for almost three years. The hunt they'd had been on had left Dean injured, and John had taken him to the hospital, but his injuries weren't life threatening and definitely hadn't required long term treatment. Or so he'd thought.

John studied the container for a bit more before clenching it tightly in his fist and continuing to locate the lost Tylenol. With both medicines in his possession, John wandered into the bathroom and filled one of the glasses with a small amount of cool water before heading back in to face his son--his son who apparently had been lying to him for 3 years.

"Here." John tossed Dean the box of Tylenol and waited until his son had popped two pills from the holding pack before handing him the water and resting on the side of his bed.

"Thanks."

"No problem." John replied, his voice near trembling as he tried to remain calm, "Now, would you mind explaining this?"

"Uh...w-well," Dean stammered, his eyes fixated on the pill bottle in his father's outstretched hand, "Kind of."

"Kind of? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John asked angrily, his eyes wild, "I want to know what this is, and I want to know right now, you hear me?"

"Yes sir." The ingrained response flew quickly from Dean's mouth as his mind raced for the best way to tell his father the truth, or if he should actually tell the truth.

"It's no big deal." Dean began off-handedly.

"No big deal? My son faints right in front of me and has been taking some prescription behind my back for almost 3 years and it's no big deal?" John ranted, his body shaking with rage.

"Can you calm down a bit? You're scaring me here." Dean confessed, looking damn near terrified. John shook his head, and took a deep breath, a calmer look appearing on his face.

"Better?" John asked tersely, watching as Dean's eyes absorbed his change in appearance.

"Yeah." Dean muttered, "Okay. So, it's called atrial fibrillation. Basically, it's just an irregular heartbeat. And like I said, it's no big deal. A lot of people have it. The doctor in New Mexico figured it out, I guess."

"Then why do you have to take these?" John pressed, not entirely sure he was getting the whole truth.

"They're supposed to help it beat normal I guess. The doctor said that they would help the symptoms too." Dean continued, finding the knots in the comforter a whole lot friendlier than the look he was getting from his dad.

"Symptoms?"

"Yeah, 'cause my heart beats slower than it should I can get dizzy, tired, short of breath or faint. Doesn't happen all that much though. Hardly ever really."

"I never would've known." John resigned, trying to locate a memory where he should've, "How the hell did I miss that? And why didn't you tell me? What if this would've happened out on a hunt or something, Dean?"

"I didn't want you to know. I just…I didn't want you or Sammy more worried about me than the hunt. I didn't want you to get hurt cause of me."

And that was it, all John needed to hear. His good soldier had compromised his own health and well being to simply finish a job, and it literally sickened him. Was this what he'd instilled in his son? Nothing else matters but the job and the job alone. We do what we do, without any regard for possible inconvenience. And was it actually possible Dean didn't know exactly how much he worried on a daily basis for his son's safety? He sincerely hoped not.

"Dean, son, I'm always worried about you. Every time we get ready for another hunt, or get in the car, or simply eat in a restaurant, I'm thinking about what could happen." John's heart sank when he saw how wide Dean's eyes got at his revelation.

"Do we need to fill these?" John asked, shifting gears quickly to avoid delving deeper into just how badly his parenting was screwed up.

"Up to you." Dean responded lightly.

"How so?" John laughed disbelievingly, not able to stop himself.

"Well, 'cause, um…the doctor said that if I—how'd he put it? 'Changed some lifestyle habits' then the problem won't be a problem. But I don't agree with the terms." Dean stated defiantly.

"And what terms would those be?" John grinned. This was going to be good.

"Some quack had idea that cutting down on caffeine and alcohol helped. I personally think he's crazy, but that's me. I'd much rather pay for the refill"

"I'm sure you would, however, we don't have thirty dollars to waste every two months." John chastised, his tone light with obvious enjoyment at the new predicament his son was now in.

"45."

"What?"

"It's forty-five dollars."

"Then hell no." John shrieked, raising a hand to silence Dean's protest, "You are in for some serious lifestyle changing, young man."

"Ah, c'mon, dad, you can't be serious." Dean whined, his face the picture of desperation. John had to laugh, the kid was good.

"Oh, I'm serious alright, from tonight on, no caffeine or alcohol unless I give the go ahead." John ordered, trying to put on his most serious face, but failing miserably.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Dean asked seriously and placed his hand over his heart for added measure, his eyes searching his father's for a sure sign the older man was joking.

"If I did that, who would I have to torment?" John teased, rubbing the top of his son's head as he went to hit the lights. "Now, time for bed, sleepyhead."

"Oh, good one, Dad. Think of that one all by yourself." Dean shot back sarcastically, all though knowing full well where the phrase came from. He'd heard it plenty of times before the fire, and only a handful after.

-------------

"Dad?" Dean's voice pierced the sleep welcoming silence and the darkness that surrounded it.

"What, Dean?" John growled groggily. It was already way past his preferred bedtime.

"How about a deal?"

"What?"

"A deal. I'll do that whole no caffeine/alcohol thing, but only if you do." Dean proposed, and John could hear the smug grin on his face from across the room.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm your father." John reasoned, "Now go to bed."

"C'mon, dad. It'll be like 'I drink, you drink.'" Dean pushed, his desperation more than evident and if John wasn't already concerned about what that crap was doing to his son he would be now. Dean had to be an addict.

"No, Dean. I'm not the one whose health is on the line." Yep, he did it. He pulled the health card and didn't even feel bad about it.

"Maybe not, but you are the one whose sleep pattern is." Dean offered the challenge and John eyes widened at how screwed he really was.

"You won't go there if you know what's good for you." John threatened, although knowing full good and well it was utterly futile.

"Oh, I'm going there all right. Which of my renditions of AC/DC would you like to hear first? I'm in the Evil Walks mood myself." And if John thought it couldn't get worse, Dean actually started belting out the song.

"Fine. If that's the way you want it, but don't you dare come bitching to me when you haven't had coffee in over four months, you got me?"

"Yes sir." Dean replied loudly, and John could almost swear he saw a shadow of arm complete a salute.

"Sleep. Now." John commanded, and shut his eyes gratefully when silence entered the room once again.

"Hey Dad?"

"What?" John whined, grabbing the extra pillow just in case his oh-so-persistent son decided to initiate another long and pointless conversation and he would need a way to drown it out.

"Thanks."

---------------

Alright a little more on the drama/angst side this time around. Lemme know what you thougt about this one. And here's a hint for the next shot: Stanford. haha! Thanx for reading and reviewing


	4. School Ties

4. School Ties

The sandy-haired Winchester snapped his head up as the hiss and groan of the bus's brakes filled the late November air. A handful of people stepped on, mostly around his age and took their perspective seats. The hiss returned as the bus shifted back into gear and jerked forward. Dean quickly searched for the stop number that was quickly fading into rearview, hoping to everything holy he didn't miss the right stop. He let out a relieved breath when he saw there was one more to go.

Dean flexed his nervous, and damn near shaking, hands, and tried hard to ignore the churning of his stomach and the continual, uncontrollable bouncing his right leg was doing. _Why am I doing this again? Oh yeah._

Bobbing his head anxiously, he reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out his battered cell phone. With deft fingers, Dean opened his messages and selected voicemail. He waited impatiently for the automated voice to tell him to enter his password and press pound, before punching in the numbers at rapid speed and holding the phone fast against his ear.

He let out a steadying breath, and visibly relaxed, every nervous movement ceasing as the message replayed itself for what had to be the fortieth time since he'd received it.

_----_

_Uh…hey, Dean. How's it going with you…and Dad? I'm fine. Busy, you know? Uh…yeah, if you are around campus on Thursday I have a break from 12:30—1:15. So we could hang out or eat or something. I'll be in Sloan Math Center. It's in the Main Quad. Alright, so see you then._

---

Four months was far too long to wait just to hear you little brother's voice. At first, Dean had been hurt, beyond shattered, when Sam didn't even bother to call him or write him after he'd stormed out. That rage-filled night, Dean had initially believed that his little brother was walking out on his father and their lifestyle—not on him.

He was big brother. The coolest one Sam would ever have, although seeing as he was the only older brother Sam could have he was automatically given the title but then again, winning on a technicality was never a bad thing. It became obvious after a couple weeks of absolutely zero communication that Sam didn't hold the same idea of Dean as big brother thought he did.

Dean had tried to rationalize it at first. That to Sam, maybe calling was a way of recanting the mess of horrible things thrown in his father's face and admitting a wrong where there was none. But Dean hadn't done anything wrong either. He'd played mediator, and supporter to the best of his ability, and still got the same harsh treatment as the supposed bad guy in Sammy's mind.

The older brother honestly didn't know what was worse—having your brother leave on a furious rampage and simply break all contact or trying to reestablish a severed relationship by leaving unreturned messages and working your damn best to not sound desperate and lonely while doing so. But this time had been different. This time Sam had called back and Dean had never been more scared and excited in his entire life.

If time could stop, Dean was pretty sure it did when his dad had informed him that they would be taking a short break and traveling to Santa Clara, California to meet up with his former Marine buddy turned hunter like himself. The jobs had been slow and rather hard to come by the past couple of months and supposedly Chuck knew of some leads that could be some high class gigs. However, the only thing Dean had noticed when his dad had thrown him the map and told him to figure out the best route was how close Santa Clara was positioned to Palo Alto on the map.

His dad hadn't mentioned it. Not one word. In fact, his father had rarely mentioned Sam unless he was making a joke or something, never in retrospect or reminiscence. Dean really wondered sometimes if his dad had the ability to truly shut off himself from his youngest son.

He really didn't understand how his father could though. Sam haunted Dean's thoughts every waking moment, and his little brother's spiteful words ravaged his worse nightmares. He never voiced it though, the missing of his younger brother. Dad was never one to indulge in the moment, so to speak, and Dean likewise. They communicated in silence, something Sam never could understand.

By the time, the midnight Impala crossed the California state line, Dean's plan was already set in motion. He had called Sam mere minutes after his dad had left the hotel room. He'd tried his best to sound nonchalant like this was merely a passing through and if Sam wanted to hang out, he was willing.

The older son had also outline the bus line, and had a ticket on hold. A trip to Palo Alto was only around a half and hour depending on traffic and the number of stops. Finding the math building proved a bit of a challenge, but Dean had actually dug some of the old Stanford pamphlets out of the trash and saved them all those months ago, thankfully the campus map was on the back.

All that remained was getting past his dad, the Marine that he was, not to mention hunter. For all the time he spent away on jobs when they were kids, it always surprised Dean how much his father really knew him, and exactly how he would react in a given situation. So, even though he never uttered a single word about his plans or mentioned he might spend a day walking around town and taking in the sights, he was pretty sure his dad knew exactly where his head was at and was eternally grateful the man hadn't spoken a word for or against it.

The familiar lurch shook the public transport once again, and Dean gathered his jacket before following the line of people off of the bus and onto the main street. He had a two mile walk ahead of him, but he also had Sam waiting there at the end of it.

------------

One thing was for sure, Stanford was massive. Dean never had seen Sam as a big city kind of person; he always appeared more of a homebody. But this college was a friggen metropolis. The small map on the back of the brochure definitely needed some adjustment, in his mind. Damn scale drawings made everything look so close together.

It took him about forty minutes once he'd hit the campus to actually locate "the quad" as his brother put it. Didn't help that he didn't really know what a "quad" was, and once he found out, Dean was pretty sure the people that designed this one weren't clued in on the definition themselves. It was more of a semi-circle, in his opinion. Sloan wasn't hard to find though, and Dean took his place on the bench facing the doorway and waited.

The doors swung open with a thud no more than ten minutes later and mass amounts of students flooded through them. Dean jumped up from his seat, and stretched his neck to try and catch a glimpse of Sam, not that the skinny giant would be hard to miss anyway. The elder rested back on his heels, and lowered his head when he caught no sign of him, and for a minute entertained the idea that his brother maybe wasn't going to show up or simply forgot. A sharp smack to the back of the head broke that train of thought.

"What's up, jerk?" Dean turned around sharply, rubbing the back of his head where his little brother's hand had connected, and had every intention of giving Sam the "you're dead" look, but his mouth refused to cooperate and instead morphed into a huge grin.

"Nothing much, geek." Dean shot back, his smile matching Sam's.

"But a handsome geek, huh?" Sam teased, stepping back and stretching his arms out before doing a complete 360.

"God, take me now." Dean muttered, shaking his head and laughing openly.

"So, I got an hour to kill." Sam stated, looking at his watch, "You hungry? 'Cause there's this really good, and really cheap pizza place—got a bar and everything."

"Uh…yeah, pizza sounds good." Dean stated, gesturing for Sam to lead the way, "But uh…you think we could get some coffee?"

"Dude, you're an addict. You've probably already had four cups this morning." Sam teased, looking over his shoulder and slowing his pace when he saw Dean lagging behind a bit.

"Not an addict." Dean argued proudly, closing the gap between them and falling into stride with Sam, "I'll have you know I haven't had coffee in almost three weeks."

"You're kidding, right?" Sam shot his brother a look, and tilted his head questionably at the statement.

"Nope." Dean smirked cockily.

"You wouldn't do that." Sam pressed, his eyes squinting as he looked his brother over.

"Yeah, I would." Dean protested to Sam's back as he followed his brother into the noisy crowed restaurant. "Dude, I said coffee."

"You also said pizza. We'll get some after ok? God, man, you act like your jonesing for a fix." Sam scoffed, gesturing toward a vacant back table.

"Maybe I am. Dad drank a cup this morning, actually two, so I'm in the clear." Dean explained, taking his seat opposite Sam.

"Why does that matter?" Sam's tone was razor sharp and Dean flinched slightly at the swift change in his brother's demeanor.

"It doesn't." Dean refuted, his eyes darting around for an escape and never was he more grateful to see a waitress. Sam's piercing suspicious eyes never left Dean the entire time he ordered for them—one large with everything, a coke, and coffee.

"Really? 'Cause I don't remember you keeping track of Dad's intake at all and judging yours off it." Sam pressed, refusing to let the topic drop. Dean clenched his jaw in annoyance and disappointment. The last thing he wanted to be doing was arguing.

"Sam. Drop it." Dean ordered, his hazel eyes fierce.

"Whatever." Sam huffed, letting his attention drift towards the number of TVs aligning the far wall, all showing a different sport's game, barely even registering the dull thud of their drinks being delivered.

"So…" Dean began, taking a gulp of his favored brew and waiting to regain Sam's attention before continuing, "You got a girl yet?"

"No." Sam replied, rolling his eyes, "Is that all you think about?"

"Hey, you're the weird one here, little bro. Most guys don't think about math when they got beautiful girls just walking around all day on campus."

"Most guys don't get a full ride to Stanford." Sam shot back, eyes widening when the cheesy pie was placed in front of them.

"No, they get the girls." Dean replied smugly, leaning across the table to grab a slice, "You can't be a geek and expect to get a hot girl."

"Being a geek isn't that bad, Dean. Plus, if you are, the hot girls come to you."

"You told you that—Steve Urkel?"

"Figured it out on my own. If they know you're smart, they'll ask you for help and even some tutoring—one on one by the way." Sam revealed, an implying smirk on his face.

"They've corrupted you, Sammy." Dean laughed, his head falling back in the motion.

"No, I think it was growing up with you. And it's Sam."

"Whatever, Sam-_my_. And I have no idea what you are talking about. I was pretty damn near the perfect role model." Dean defended what he knew to be a complete and absolute lie.

"This from the man who at fifteen, left me in the hotel room so he could walk into a bar, and back out with the cheapest looking chic I'd ever seen."

"Hey, I had to bring her back to the hotel. I couldn't leave you alone. Dad would've kicked my ass."

"You locked me out of the room." Sam stated, clearly still irritated at the memory.

"Hey, you were eleven. Didn't need to be watching that." Dean replied in his best "fatherly" tone.

"Well, thanks for looking out for me." Sam shot back, mocking sincerity.

"I always do." Dean offered softly, choosing to watch the waitress fill his cup rather than look at Sam.

"You really gonna only drink two cups?" Sam posed, eyeing his brother curiously.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Sam, don't start, okay. I already told you to drop it." Dean exasperated, rubbing a hand over his face and working to stay calm.

"Dude, I know you. You depend on caffeine for your daily survival, man. There is no way you would just give that stuff up unless someone made you." Sam reasoned, giving Dean an all-knowing look.

"You don't know everything, Sammy." Dean replied slowly, his gaze studying the half-eaten piece of pizza growing colder by the second.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked pointedly, his tone conveying his confusion and bordering anger.

"It means you left and haven't seen me or dad in four months so how the hell would you know what's going on?"

Dean jerked his head to the side, biting down hard on his tongue, his face contorted in frustration. He hadn't meant for it to come out that way. Well, a part of him had. A part of him wanted Sam to know just how badly it hurt to wake up every morning and realize yet again, your brother had abandoned you and expected you to be happy about it.

That piece of him desired to fill Sam in on every moment of agony spent in shunned existence and then have that time of despair shrugged off with a simple "I know you" as if the days spent apart were completely inconsequential because there was no way someone as simple as Dean Winchester could possibly change, fear, or feel something, anything new that was worth uncovering.

Sam needed to know that he wasn't okay with the decision his little brother had made, and Dean mentally kicked himself for not remembering that he didn't come first in the twisted brotherhood. Sam did. Always had because Dad had made that clear from day 1. And the startled and hurt look that clouded Sam's features as his mouth turned down in a tight frown and his brow knit in thought, gripped Dean's emotions just like it had every single time it crossed his little brother's face in childhood. It truly amazed Dean how one single pained look from the person who was supposed to idolize him made him feel like the worse person to ever grace the face of the planet.

"Dammit!" Dean growled, slamming his fist into the table causing the stunned waitress to jump back sloshing the hot steamy liquid from the pot. Startled, she quickly turned to head back towards the kitchen and for what Dean assumed would be more coffee. "Leave it!"

"I thought--" Sam countered as the waitress set the pot down on the table next to Dean's cup.

"Well, you thought wrong!" Dean replied heatedly, pouring himself another cup and downing half of it. Anything was better than talking at this point.

"Look, Dean, I'm--"

"Save it, Sammy. I don't want an apology." Dean interrupted as soon as Sam's guilt-ridden tone met his ears, and if he'd been anyone else he probably would've just broke down at that moment. As much as he hated to admit it, he'd had a complete illusion of what this afternoon would be like and had allowed himself to buy into it completely. And now it was shattered, and beyond repair.

"Then what do you want, Dean? And before you say come back and start hunting again--don't. 'Cause that isn't me, Dean. It's not who I am and I'm not going to stay in some life I hate simply because Dad can't wrap his mind around the concept that i have dreams and ambitions of my own." Sam ranted, his cheeks burning red and his eyes ablaze with anger.

"I'm sorry we made you so miserable, Sam." Dean spat, "But just because you don't like where you're at doesn't mean you up and leave other people to take care of your mess."

"My mess?" Sam scoffed; shaking his head at what to him seemed positively ludicrous.

"Yeah, you think that it was easy dealing with Dad after you stormed out?" Dean questioned incredulously, leaning back into the chair, arms crossed, as he waited for a reply.

"Ah, c'mon, Dean, not like you couldn't handle it. And Dad wouldn't take it out on you anyway. He actually likes you." Sam snapped, hands shaking slightly as he worked to contain his growing rage.

"What the hell, Sam? Dad likes you." Dean refuted vehemently.

"No, Dad tolerates me." Sam countered, "There's a difference."

"You know what, this isn't about Dad. And we're not gonna have that discussion" Dean stated firmly, signaling the waitress for the check.

"Oh we're having this discussion, Dean. We are and you want to know why? Because as much as Dad hates to admit it and you refuse to believe--I can't be the good soldier you are. I never could be and I never will be."

"I never said you had to be Sam." Dean confessed quietly, "I just—Its just—Don't you have a class to get to or something?"

"Dammit!" Sam exclaimed, glancing up at the restaurant's football shaped clock, before throwing down a ten on the table and slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. "I got to go or Professor Lidman will have my ass. Look, Dean, you--"

"Go, Sam. I'm a big boy I can take care of myself." Dean replied sarcastically, but sadness enveloped the words.

"Okay, if you're sure." Sam nodded, lingering a bit longer at the table and shifting uncomfortably, "It was good to see you, Dean. Sorry if it didn't seem like it. But it was. And I'll call you, or you can call me, okay?"

"Sure, Sammy." Dean answered, lifting his head to look at his brother and give a small smile. It was enough to suffice, and Sam returned the expression before turning around and walking out of the restaurant.

Dean dropped his head in his hands defeated. He had been wrong to assume that Sam's leaving had nothing to do with him. His brother had walked out on hunting and his father, two things that defined his very existence. Dean had never felt so foolish and just alone. Sam had been his one friend and confident, at least when Dean actually confided in him and the one who experienced the same things, feared the same things, and shared a childhood like no other could ever understand with him.

The elder sibling rubbed his hands furiously over his face, enjoying the familiar tingling sensation flowing through his body as the only legal addictive stimulant in the world coursed through his veins. It felt good, he'd genuinely missed the stuff, but what he craved now was something stronger, something to ease and burn the pain away. Dad would understand. At least he hoped so.

Dean exhaled deeply, and brought his head back up. Methodically, he pulled out his wallet dropping down an identical ten along side Sam's. It was over the amount of lunch, but he figured the waitress deserved it for not kicking their sorry asses out.

Grabbing his jacket off the back of the seat, he eased it on, and exited the establishment. Right led back to campus; and left he figured would probably lead to a bar since that's where all the other restaurants and shops seemed to be. He desperately needed a bar, one thing he'd learned from Dad was that all things can be forgotten with a bottle—at least temporarily.

Turning on his heels, Dean started to head off in that direction feeling only slightly hypocritical for not allowing his Dad to find company in Jack and that he was about to became Jose's best bud. He ignored the twinge of guilt and continued on, only to be met with the familiar black of the Impala as he neared the end of the first block.

Dean guessed he probably looked like a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar when the door to the car popped open, and his father told him to get in. An order Dean complied to automatically.

"Where you going?" John questioned needlessly. He knew better than anyone what his son was searching for. He'd done the same only weeks before, only to get thwarted by his eldest before he could do anything stupid. Now it was his turn to return the favor.

"Yeah, 'cause you have no idea." Dean scoffed, leaning back in the seat and locking his gaze on the blur of people outside the car window.

"It won't help." John stated soothingly, "I know you want it to, but it won't."

"Thanks, Dad. Finally enrolled in those AA meetings, huh?"

"Because I know where you snuck off to today and what you were doing, I'm going to ignore that disrespectful tone of yours, let that one slide, and focus on the issue here." John reasoned, surprisingly quite calmly--almost too much so for Dean's liking.

"And that would be?" Dean pressed, his tone hostile. He'd fought all day, and thanks to the caffeine felt like he could go another round at least.

"Sammy's changed, Dean." John began cautiously. "He's a man now. He makes his own choices, whether we like them or not."

"Right. And you're just completely okay with that. I was there when he left Dad." Dean snapped tightly, the air in the car shifting to near suffocating proportions.

"I never said that. I don't agree at all with how he left. But he did leave Dean, and we have to accept that." John muttered, his words bearing a grief that Dean hadn't heard since the fire.

"He asked me to call him." Dean offered meekly, and John's eyes burned at the hope intertwined within the statement.

"That's good, Dean. You should."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean mumbled, grabbing a tape from his stash and putting it in the deck. His father didn't give one word of argument as the rock blared from the speakers and Dean sunk down into the seat, eyes shut, closing out the world.

_----------_

_You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.—Dean (Pilot)_

_-----------_

Sorry for the wait! I hope this update was worth it. And lemme know what you think and if you have any other things you wanna see. Thanx for reading and reviewing!


	5. Hunting Nights

_OKAYS---sorry for the massive delay in getting another one of these posted...a thousand lashes for me...I hope this shot satisfies as an apology although god knows I don't deserve forgiveness for making ya'll wait so long!_

_I tried something a little different this time around so let me know what you think...okay enough of this stuff to what you clicked the link for:_

* * *

5. Hunting Nights

* * *

The Chalman home loomed over the dense, overgrown grass tinted yellow from lack of upkeep and proper watering. Time had aged the wooden structure and its elusive hands had carved its mark into the whitewashed slats and bordered windows. Every creak and groan from the rotting floorboards echoed into the vast shadow cast by the deteriorating two-story. Their resonance in the still night air punctuated with each heavy, panicked footfall and cries from a desperate, searching man.

"Dean!" John yelled blindly into the darkness, his eyes darting frantically over the inner remnants of the dilapidated house. This was a nightmare. A friggen' nightmare. One he'd had in the worse tirades of sleep—a scenario he was ever conscious of in his waking but never contemplated and deemed impossible. And yet, it was happening, in the shadowed veil of living, breathing nightfall, it was happening.

"Son? Dean!" The dark-haired man clamored up the ancient stairs, nearly breaking the tiny wooden banister under the fierce grip of his left, his right clinging tightly to his trusted rifle. It wasn't supposed to have occurred this way but Fate was a cruel bitch.

His entire game plan had changed the instant he'd given into Dean's manipulation and allowed the boy to swap Dad's trusty EMF for his invention evolved from the old busted up walkman John had given him for his twelfth birthday. Damn thing made more noise than it was worth and if he hadn't been trying to find the damn volume control then he would've caught sight of the pissed off spirit of Martin Chalman sooner and the nosy neighbor, eyes wide with fear, before he fired a round of rock salt into the haunting bastard. Shot to hell didn't even begin to describe the situation as a police escort back to the hotel and a round of questioning from the son he'd left behind with piles of research concluded the evening.

And then it had come to this. John couldn't go back to the house; he'd been seen and more than likely being tailed. The job offered a nice payment, but it had to be completed first—damn capitalists. The only hope for payday and security of the frightened town was Dean and there was no other option but for the boy to finish the job--alone.

_I can handle it. _

The anguished father shook his head as the words spoken mere hours before tormented him.

_Let me do this._

John had known better, and still he'd said yes. He'd relented to the incessant plea of his oldest for him to simply grant a solo hunt and the lingering need for finances. At the current moment, regret seemed too simple a word.

"C'mon, Dean!" John growled. Worry drove his actions, and betrayed all knowledge of the hunt as his voice raised to a course scream with each utterance of his son's name. Let the damn bitch Chalman come after him, he didn't care.

He rushed toward the other end of the long, narrow hallway only to come to a halting stop in front of a large bay window overlooking the acre of land resting behind the homestead. A small shed stood out like a black scar in the thick turf, the wooden entrance partially unhinged and swaying ever slightly in the small wisps of midnight wind.

It was the trigger John needed. Thousands of facts, articles, and internet searches flooded back with rapid speed, each one filling in the missing parts of the puzzle and plausible location of his missing son. Martin Chalman was more than a murderer and suicide victim, he was a gardener, and had chosen his haven as the proper place to commit both.

Fear creeped along John's spine, wrapping around every furious breath and determined sprint as the father fled to the decaying relic. Long strides and a quick turn brought him into the structure, and searching eyes soaked in the dim environment. Only one side of the room occupied everything but by looks of the broken shards of wood, and mess of scattered tools it had not always been so.

The weary dark haired man sighed tremblingly when nothing but piles of rubble met his glassy gaze. Masses of brown, charred black, rotted gray and then--red--deepest crimson in the shallowest pool seeping toward his booted feet. Quivering legs brought him closer to the shattered remains of a work bench and glimmering assortment of iron and steel instruments under which the source of such jarring scarlet could be found.

Adrenaline coursed through every vein, governing the strain and ripple of muscle against the heavy obstacles imprisoning the bloody origin. John didn't speak, his face stoic, as he refused to allow himself a thought beyond each jerk and clatter as the remnants were tossed aside until all was revealed.

The smallest hint of sand colored hair starkly contrasted the sea of brown and captivated John. He needed to see more of it. He needed to know. Rapidly, John threw the remaining splinters away, and didn't try to silence the sharp gasp that escaped him as he slowly took in the ashen face of his oldest child, slack and still, painted red along the side.

"Dean?" John whispered harshly, but initial shock gave way to urgency and he commanded, "Dean!"

When no reply was offered from his son, John set to work clearing away the rest of the rubble until the better half of Dean's torso was uncovered before stopping the action. Kneeling down along side the motionless form of his first born, John lightly tapped the side of Dean's stubble laden cheek doing his best to coax his son into consciousness. Each slap intensified as the seconds wore on, and within an instant John decided that waiting wasn't an option anymore. He needed to act, and he needed to do it now.

Placing his hands underneath Dean's shoulder's, John adjusted his position to gain a better balance and pulled, grunting against the resistance as he tried to drag his son's body from the rest of the debris. Dean's torn jeans came into sight, along with a small flutter of eyelids, and John hauled again, this time able to pull Dean into almost a half slump against him.

Dean's head lolled back and a brief glint of green met John's brown. "H-huh…"

"We're getting out of here, son." With haste, the father draped one arm across Dean's back and bent to place the other under his knees, a swift movement later and John was rewarded with a bloodcurdling scream from his eldest and the pained stare of jade. "What? Dean? What?"

It was as if the darkened stain covering the front of Dean's T-shirt was only now coming into being. John swallowed the bile seeking to rise, and tried his best to offer some form of comfort as his son fought jerkily and weakly in his hold. But it only made Dean squirm more.

"Dean, stop!" John ordered firmly, tightening his grip. It was the only way to get his son to listen, orders were always followed and it'd worked in his favor because Dean indeed stilled. The father hardly managed to break from the confused, agonizing stare of his son, and scanned the area quickly for any sign of the malevolent spirit.

Satisfied that as long as the thing wasn't on his heels things they were good, John asked Dean if he was ready, and received a small nod in return. It was enough, and John broke out into the fastest pace he could without jostling Dean too much as each moan and whimper was like dosing his legs with lead almost bringing him to a stop each time they reached his ears.

"Dean, you gonna have to stand." John stated and lowered Dean's feet to the ground, resting his son's lax body against the familiar black machine.

"M-kay" Dean drawled, unfocused, half-lidded eyes watching his Dad open the car door and throw a mass of objects into the back seat before shirking off his jacket.

"Okay," John muttered, balling up the outer layer and pressed the material against Dean's torso, unsure exactly where the injury lay but the sharp wince from his son proved he'd gotten close enough. "Can you hold that? Good. Alright, let's go."

The search for a hotel was as traumatic as they come. John's entire body shook from the effort to focus on the road and keeping his son conscious. Dean's head wound was the main concern and without proper lighting he really didn't know the extent of the damage. The problem was Dean was always the sleeper, his favorite past time really, and John's already strained nerves were completely frazzled by the time he'd jerked the car into the nearest motel parking lot.

With clouded eyes and weary, drained features, Jonathan Tyler booked the closest room on ground level he could get. The place proved perfect, as neither the manager nor the small amount of people drinking in the far corner of the lot questioned his carrying of his son into the room, or the rushed sprint back to the still running car to retrieve the stark white med kit and the keys that were dangling from the ignition.

John clamored back into the cramped room, arms loaded with supplies, only to find Dean had managed to curl up on his uninjured side. His eyes gradually sliding shut. "Dean!"

Dean turned his head slightly at the sound of his name. The droopy lids cracking a bit revealing more of the clouded jade. "W-what?"

"I need you to stay awake, son." John spoke softly. The same comforting, yet foreign tone he'd used when the boys were little, never when they were men. With shaky hands, John sent down the supplies and let his eyes scan Dean's prone form. His thoughts gathered, he set to work on adjusting Dean on his back.

"No." Dean snapped, swatting futilely at the hands that sought to lift his shirt to survey the damage.

"Dean, you're bleeding. I have to see." John stated firmly, grimacing along side his son when the cotton clung to the caking blood and torn skin leaving in it's a wake a fresh trail of red.

"Stop…fine." Dean mumbled and flinched under John's touch.

"No, you're not." The heated and utterly true statement left the room in silence as Dean bit his lip hard against the pressing of his Dad's fingers along the wound, and the hiss of antiseptic as it was poured liberally.

"I don't think its deep enough for stitches." John declared after cleaning the wound for the second time and applying the thick white bandage hiding the ripped skin beneath. Dealing with hunting accidents first time around was tough enough, an infection wasn't an option. "Should heal okay."

"Told you." Dean snarked and reached outan arm in search for a pillow. Lying flat was a bitch and he wasn't going to sleep that way if he could help it.

"Yeah, but you still got a nasty cut on your head." John replied with a tight smile at his son's stubborn streak while studying the raised gash just above his son's eyebrow.

"It's fine."

John dropped his head in mock annoyance and pick up the damp rag he'd used earlier to get the rest of the dried blood off Dean's face and to apply some antiseptic as well before placing two butterfly bandages over the wound. "So you've said. There. Finished."

"Good. Can I sleep now?" Dean slurred, shifting as much as his body would let him and shutting his eyes.

"No!" John exclaimed, shaking Dean's shoulder firmly. "I need you to stay awake for a bit, okay?"

"Dad…" Dean whined and rolled his eyes towards his father who'd moved to sit watchfully on the adjacent bed.

"Chances are you got a concussion, Dean. You know the drill." John's tone was that all-knowing, ex-Marine, 'I know I taught you this' one that Dean loathed.

"Don't care. Tired." Dean muttered trying his best to sound firm and equal in authority.

John reached out and applied pressure to Dean's bandaged torso when his son's eyes slid shut rebelliously, only to snap wide in full consciousness as the sensation of pain set its course. "Yeah, well, I do."

Dean groaned and struggled to settle into a semi-half-sit seeing as that way at least he could block another attempt by his Dad to inflict pain to what was already torture. "You suck."

"Watch it." John ordered, pointing a finger at Dean, "No son of mine is dying 'cause I let him fall asleep."

"I'm not gonna die." Dean refuted strongly.

"You're not gonna sleep either." John retorted with a smile when his son huffed defeated.

"Fine." Dean rested the crown of his head against the head board and sighed. "Now what?"

John considered the question for a minute but already knew where he wanted to take this conversation---where he needed to take it. "Well, you could tell me what happened tonight."

"What can I say? The dude didn't want to get toasted. But I got him." Dean smarted with a tired smirk although John's face was less than amused.

"I knew this would happen," John shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, "I just knew it."

"It was a freak thing, Dad. It happens." The son offered wearily. Dean had known the instant Chalman had materialized behind him accompanied by every rusted tool in the shed that this conversation would be happening. He just didn't want to have it now.

John shot his son a stern look. "Not if you're prepared."

"I was." Dean countered sullenly.

"The fact that I found you bleeding says otherwise." John snapped, all the fear and urge to comfort leaving in one swift instant, only to be replaced by anger at the situation for being what it was, himself for letting it happen, and at Dean for just not paying attention.

Dean sat up straighter in the bed, ignoring the shooting pain down his torso and the steady spin of the room. "It's not that bad!"

"Bad enough." John contended heatedly, jumping off the bed and beginning a furious pace, "What would've happened if I hadn't shown up? You think some random person is just gonna drop by an abandoned shed to help you?"

"No." The reply was so soft John had to strain to hear it.

"Come again?"

"No, sir." Dean's eyes, laced with indignation, locked with his father's as the trademarked phrase left his lips.

"So what? You figured that since you were out on your own this time you could do whatever the hell you wanted? That you didn't have to be careful?" John pressed, anger rolling off of him in waves.

Dean swallowed visibly. "No, s-"

John was on roll, not to be interrupted. His voice roared in the tense air, pounding in Dean's ears. "'Cause let me tell you something, boy. This isn't happening again! Ever. I don't care how friggen' old you think you are. If you can't handle a haunting like this one alone, then how the hell do you think you can beat something bigger?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugged, muttering to the ratted comforter swimming in his gaze.

"Damn right you don't," John exasperated, the words losing their former heat when he actually looked at his son's defeated posture. "It's too big a risk."

Dean's head snapped up at his father's confession and the worry interwoven therein. "I'm a good hunter, Dad."

"I know." John agreed, his lips forming a sad smile as he sunk back down onto the bed, "A damn good one. But this…"

The sandy-haired boy tilted his head as he waited for his dad to continue, but the man never did. "What?"

"This can't happen again, Dean." John waved his hand as if the movement summed up the entire ordeal and then simply sighed.

"It will" Dean replied matter-of-factly to which John gave a sharp look, "No, dad, I mean, how is this…different? We get separated on hunts all the time."

"It just was."

"How?" Dean inquired and made the effort to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and teeter in a precarious sit. He wasn't getting any sleep now anyway.

John studied his son for a moment, the words he wanted to say seeming to border the overly emotional. He shoved them aside and gave a gruff answer. "Could have been worse."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, a frown on his face, "But it wasn't. And we both know that it comes with the territory."

"That doesn't mean we increase the odds." John replied with finality.

"No, but I really don't plan on hunting with my Dad when I'm forty." Dean quipped; then quickly covered his ass, "Not that there is anything wrong with that."

"Especially when your dad is as cool as me," John gloated, allowing the lightness to enter the discussion.

"Right." Dean breathed mockingly.

"Hey, if I remember correctly you were the only 10 yr. old on the block with a sawed off shot gun of their own." John pointed out in perfect seriousness.

"'Cept I don't remember it being on my Christmas list." Dean countered. If he remembered correctly, he'd asked for a bike.

"Oh it was there. Fine print. Right below that Latin book I got you." John shot back, not to be out done. Thoughtful silence drifted between them. It was comfortable, no longer intense and fueled by seething rage, but just merely existing.

"Dad?" Dean ventured, watching as his father rose to stand again.

"Yeah, Dean?" John replied off-handedly as he gathered the mess of medical supplied and tried to sort them back in order.

"I still want to." The admission was soft, but resolved.

John knew it was unnecessary, but pressed anyway. "Want to what?"

"Hunt solo." Pleading eyes met John's and a knowing nod was all he could offer in reply. The idea still frightened him, and the images of tonight's ordeal were already burned into his memory bank only to resurface in the deepest of dreams.

"Alright, but few and far between and not unless it's absolutely necessary," John managed to sound somewhat authoritative once he'd found his voice, "And I'm calling Caleb because I think he has a contact that deals specifically with protective charms."

"Why do you need that?" Dean questioned incredulously.

An easy smile crossed John's face. "I don't. You do."

"Huh?" Dean's face scrunched with confusion, then unfolded in revelation, "Are you kidding me?"

"It's a perfect solution." John countered quickly, "Besides, this way we cut the odds in our favor."

"I'm not wearing some stupid charm." Dean protested vehemently.

John's face grew stern. "You'll do as I say if you ever want your own hunt again."

"Dad…"

"I think it's safe for you to sleep now." John declared without missing a beat, effectively shutting down the discussion and set about looking for his phone.

"Fine." Dean huffed, although any irritation was drowned out by a loud yawn as he laid back down and let his eye slide shut.

John waited a moment before sinking down into one of the small chairs and dialing Caleb's number by heart. This would solve their problem for now. He'd get a good one. The best protective symbol there was because this wasn't just anyone he was trying to protect this was his son.

Placing the phone to ear, John listened as the series of high pitched rings hit his ears, only to be replaced by the expected voicemail message seconds later as well as a muffled request from his exhausted son to ask Caleb if there was any chance of just getting one tattoo-ed to his body.

John smirked and left a short message, void of Dean's request. Solo hunts and Dean alone were enough to deal with. No son of his was going to be walking around looking like a friggen' Picasso. Nope, no sir. Not gonna happen.

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_Okay so like it? hate it? i need to know...I figured that Dean and John prolly argued somewhat and what better way to do it than over independence seeing as that seems to be a constant struggle with the Winchester boys...Anyways, hopefully it wont take me so long to get another one up, but i do hope you guys are checking out the VS cause that's the major cause of my tardiness...which again, i beg your forgiveness for!_

_Okay as always, thanx for reading and reviewing! have a good one!_


	6. Hot Wheels

6. Hot Wheels

"Don't." Dean's hand slowly retreated from his lingering position around the tape deck, his eyes never leaving the flexing jaw line beneath his father's stubble-laden skin.

With an exaggerated sigh, the sandy haired son rolled his eyes. "Dad, don't you think--"

"You are in no position to tell me what I should think," John interrupted sternly through gritted teeth.

Deafening silence found its way throughout the Impala's interior and Dean nervously played with the newly acquired protective symbol draped around his neck. His father's deep, angry breathing punctuated the eerie stillness and echoed in his ears as the minutes dragged on. However, it was far better than the creaking and clunking of their currently mangled ride in Dean's ears seeing as that's why his dad was so pissed as of late.

Tension, the sandy-haired son decided, seemed to be a good word to sum up the moment, and he did his best to just keep silent. He'd only seen his dad this upset a few times and knew a hell of a lot better than to talk at all when it came to stuff like this.

"Dammit!" The curse flew furiously from the mouth of John Winchester as the car's busted undercarriage scraped against the pot-holed asphalt. "Did we lose something?"

The younger man chose wisely to just shake his head no, but made an extreme effort to crane his neck and check just in case. "Here's a better question, son. What were you thinking?"

Dean hesitated for a brief moment, weighing his options. "I was thinking my dad was trapped by some pissed off ghost without backup."

He hadn't really meant to snap out the reply, okay well maybe he did, but at the moment he could care less that his father bit down on his tongue and seethed. At least he wouldn't get a black eye. Although, he really couldn't blame his dad if the old man wanted to.

It was his fault after all. Granted, his dad had been the one to get trapped in the deteriorated excuse for a hunting cabin with no way of escape. The doors on the cabin had proved to be sealed to superglue tightness, and even the bullets couldn't break the jamb.

In his mind, Dean could only have foreseen one way to save his dad, and that had been in the shape of a classic '67 Impala. Never mind the fact that John Winchester treated that car like his own child, or the way his eyes gleamed every time the sun shone off it's sleek black in just the right way.

Nope, Dean had ignored every loving feeling ever bestowed upon the treasured car and had issued a simple 'sorry, girl' before gunning the car straight into the side wall of the rotting building and crashing through it Duke style. It would've been okay if people in the old days didn't believe in iron being the only way to make a stove seeing as he roared right through the open room and collided with that next. All that work, only to find out his dad had already off-ed the ghost and was on his way out the door before Dean's elaborate entrance.

Dean couldn't even imagine a suckier situation. His dad went Marine in all of two seconds, screaming like a banshee about expenses and lack of money and how the hell Dean could be his son after doing something so stupid. It didn't help that Dean had been more than apt to inform his father that the guy they were helping was a mechanic so it's not like they couldn't get it fixed, and he soon wondered if that charm his dad had got for him worked against humans too.

Okay, so it wasn't his most brilliant moment, but one would think that his father would have been remotely grateful for the gesture. After all, he was only trying to save the man's life.

Instead, however, Dean ended up getting the car out of the cabin all by his lonesome, which proved tricky seeing as there was wood everywhere not to mention a load of other crap. His dad had merely watched on, glaring eyes burning into Dean's skull waiting for him to finish so he could order Dean to the passenger seat for all eternity and snatch the keys away.

And, thus, here he was, riding along side a less than furious more than angry John Winchester and hoping to everything good in the world, he would get to see what car keys looked like some other time in his life.

"You better hope this works." Dean startled out of memory at his father's gruff voice and snapped his attention to the window, taking in their surroundings. He recognized Smitty's Car Shop before the big red and black sign flooded his vision, and shifted in his seat when his dad maneuvered the battered car into the parking lot.

John exited the car, loudly slamming the dented door behind him, but turned around as if sensing Dean's attempt to escape the Impala as well. "Stay in the car!"

Dean jerked at the heat of the statement, but was already halfway out of the car by the time the order was received and chose rather to lean against the open door—the dented door. "He's just gonna dock it anyways."

"I said get in the car," John repeated forcefully, and to add some emphasis to the statement he took a slight step towards Dean.

"Okay, okay!" The intimidation factor worked as Dean quickly retreated back into the car, shutting the door and locking it quickly—just in case.

His dad wasn't in there long, really mere minutes. From his position, Dean could see the graying old mechanic thanking his father through the shops wall of windows and then gesturing towards the back of the shop. The smile plastered onto John's face when he had offered his response and shook the man's hand faded instantly into a scowl when he exited the building and headed back to his son.

Cracking the driver's door open, John leaned over the seat and snatched up his duffle. "Get your stuff."

Dean scrunched in brow in confusion. "Where we going?"

"Now, Dean." The loud command ached in Dean's ears and he quickly shut his mouth and obeyed. "Oh and you hit a tree."

"That's the best you could come up with?" John bit his tongue, and waited for his snarky son to join him outside the battered vehicle before turning to hand the keys to the approaching mechanic.

The greased man whistled under his breath as he surveyed the damage, giving Dean a sympathetic yet amused glance. "Wow, you really did a number on this one, didn't you boy? No wonder you're daddy's hot for wear. Damn, what is this…'67?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed, his eyes looking anywhere but his dad's, "It was a friggen' massive tree though."

"I'm sure it was," the man placated, then jerked his head towards the shop once more, his attention on John, "The truck's out back."

"Truck?" Dean questioned in bewilderment.

"Yes, truck." John replied, and Dean's was glad to hear that the irriation in his voice seemed to have lessened. "Sean, here, has offered to let us use one of his own."

"Damn fools never came back to get it," Sean shook his head and slid into the driver's seat—John's seat, "Their loss. It's a nice one. Like I said, John, yours' if you want."

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Nice would not have been the word Dean would've used to describe the mammoth black machine parked out behind the shop. With the massive tires and raised body, the damn thing looked like it came straight out of Monster Truck Weekly, the Wanna Be edition.

"You got a ladder I can use to get in that thing?" Dean joked, lightly hitting his father's shoulder.

John smirked. "Might be hard to use one with those casts on your legs."

"Like to see you try old man," Dean challenged, although broke into a half-run the second John looked as if to take him up on it, throwing his bag into the trunk's bed and clamoring into the cab.

"You're lucky I'm such a patient father." John retorted as he climbed into the driver's seat, although Dean's scoff at his 'umph' of effort as he hoisted himself in nearly put that theory to the test.

"You know what I think?" Dean asked rhetorically. "I think that this has nothing to do with patience, but that you have a new truck and that guy's probably fixing the car for free."

"That he is," John replied with a grin that told a story all by itself, "However, I don't have a new truck."

As standard practice, the instant John gunned the engine Dean's hand flew to the tape deck. "What? Why not?"

John worked to focus his attention on the road and not his reporter son. "We don't need another car, Dean"

Dean stilled all movement, his mouth agape with disbelief. "Like hell we don't."

"In our line of work, its good to be inconspicuous." John reasoned, slapping Dean's hand away from the radio scan and choosing his own station. He deserved to pick, at least for today.

"And the Impala is the embodiment of low key?" Dean questioned loudly, "Dad, people lock their doors when we pull up at a friggen' red light."

"That's cause they see you." John retaliated, although his face shifting to one of slight astonishment. "Did you just use the word 'embodiment'?"

"Sam left his dictionary thing, okay? I was bored." All the Marine training in the world couldn't help smother the bellowing laugh pouring from the Father's mouth at that line of defense. "Stop laughing, it isn't that funny!"

"We're not getting another car." John repeated with whatever seriousness he could muster. "And this truck is huge. Probably burns gas like crazy."

"Not like we're paying for it." Dean stated, turning to face his dad, "Dad, c'mon, most dads get their kids a car at sixteen. I'm 22."

"Yeah, a twenty-two yr old who just wrecked his father's car." John pointed out, jerking the wheel for a sharp right towards the motel.

"To save his life!" Dean gushed, his hand splayed on his chest. "Because there was just no way I could let my father die!"

John shook his head, "Okay, you've made your point, Bogart."

"Who?"

"Never mind," John grumbled and selected a parking spot.

Dean was not to be pushed aside. This was his golden opportunity and he was so not letting it die. "What if I said please?"

"Are you kidding me?" John questioned as he exited the car, wasting no time getting to their room door, Dean fast on his steps.

"No," Dean practically yelled, hustling past his father and halting the older man's steps. With the best puppy eyes he could muster, Dean tried again. "Dad, please."

"I'll think about it." John offered although the fact that he brushed past Dean seconds later and his tone held the "no way in hell" quality left little mystery into the impending decision.

"C'mon, dad, I did the eyes just there. That always works for Sam." Dean complained weakly, he was at his father's mercy here, and Dad was loving every minute of it.

"He's better at it than you." John shot back and took a deep pensive breath before locking eyes with his son. "You really want a car?"

"Yes!" Dean exclaimed, hope glistening where disappointment had claimed only instants before.

"What are you going to do with it? I mean, we're going to the same places, Dean." John reasoned. The fatherly part of him wanted to grant Dean his wish, he wanted to make his son happy, but the hunter in him screamed 'bad idea'. He'd been there for Dean's first time out on his own and it hadn't been good, with a car the possibilities were endless. And not all hunting related either.

"Follow you, cruise around, explore the backseat," Dean quipped, smirk in place.

"Hate to break it to you, but it's already been explored." John winked, his masculine pride shining as he bragged.

Dean frowned in disgust. "That is sick, dad. Just sick."

"But true." John laughed shortly then jumped into business mode. If Dean could get what he wanted, then daddy sure as hell was getting a tiny ounce of relief out of it. "Okay, here's the deal. I'll give you the Impala. BUT—you are to keep that thing on your neck at all times, mister. No more "accidentally" leaving it at the hotel, or in the trash can. If you're going to be out there all alone, then you're sure as hell are gonna be protected. And that goes for all activities, by the way."

"Deal!" Dean agreed, practically jumping with excitement and headed back to the door.

"Where are you going?" John worked to break through his son's excitement and get some answers because damn if he would probably only see his son to eat and sleep now.

"To make sure Sean doesn't screw up my car." Dean called back over his shoulder and John sunk down on the bed in amusement.

The hotel door slammed to a shut, and John laid down, staring at the ceiling with an openness only reserved for such times. "That car held some good times, huh, Mary? Gonna get a few more, I think. Oh hell, who am I kidding, it's Dean—gonna get a lot more."

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_Okay all just light fun, but you know figured its a way to cover it, and get something up cause seriously, it's been a while! sorry bout that too, btw. Lemme know what you think..._


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